In fields of grey where shadows lie, And silent prayers ascend the sky, When every road has met its end, And there is not a hand to lend, A whisper starts, a tiny thing, The quiet note a lone bird sings. That is the sound of Hope’s first breath, A stubborn life defying death.
It asks for no great, sunlit stage, It turns a lock, and then a page. It is the seed in frozen ground That waits for warmth that can’t be found. It is the thread you clutch and keep, While all the weary world’s asleep, Believing dawn, though long delayed, Is not denied, just unmade.
And when that thread is worn so thin, The doubt and darkness flooding in, When faith is but an ember’s glow, The heart prepares to let it go— That is the hour, the space between, A fragile, changing, sacred scene, When logic fails and reason sleeps, And something from the chasm leaps.
A sudden rain on desert sand, A stranger’s unexpected hand. The stone-hard soil gives way to green, A door where only wall had been. The fever breaks, the storm is done, A sudden clearing shows the sun. It’s not a trick of frail desire, But life itself, reborn in fire.
So which is greater, truth be told? The story that is new and bold? Or the small hope, that, blind and deep, Had promises it had to keep? Perhaps the miracle we see, For all its awesome majesty, Is but the child, brought forth to bloom, From Hope’s small, solitary womb.
Pam Beach ‘Beyond the Blog’
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